Armored Angels
by Camwynya
Summary: One can't help but wonder what happened back at the Citadel once word of the Apostles of Eternal Light fiasco made it back.


Knight-Sergeant J. T. Zim was a thickly-built man of middle years and absolutely no nonsense whatsoever. On a battlefield he was nothing special, save in that he treated the chaos of combat and live fire as an annoyance to be muscled through as quickly as possible._ Off_ the battlefield, chaos and disorganization were, to put it bluntly, his bitches. War might be hell, but by damn, the back end didn't have to be. Someone had to throw the right men at the right job, and by order of Elder Lyons, a substantial portion of the throwing right now was being done by Zim.

There was a cautious rapping at the door to Zim's office in the Citadel. "Speak," he called out. He didn't bother to look up. Lepelletier's letter from Rivet City had most of his attention.

"Knights Baron, Vink and Hillen reporting, sir," came the voice from the other side, "and Initiate Klave."

Okay, that merited a proper response. "Get in here," Zim said, and set the letter aside in favor of another document. As the Knights shuffled in and the Initiate closed the door behind them, he gave the report a quick glance-over.

"Sir?" said Baron, a towheaded fellow with a pinched, worried expression perpetually engraved on his face. Or maybe it was just there when Zim spoke to him. Zim didn't know. Didn't much care, either.

Zim grunted, but did not say 'at ease' or 'sit'. Instead he glanced over at Vink and Hillen's studiously blank expressions, then back to Baron. "I understand," he said, without further preamble, "that you four have made two deliveries of water to Megaton's representative since being assigned to Project Purity duty."

"Yes, sir," said Baron, and Hillen nodded. Vink fidgeted a little, but said nothing.

"Full deliveries? No stopping off in Grayditch or Wilhelm's Wharf to sell off a few gallons?"

"No, sir," said Baron. "We'd never do that."

"Mm." Zim ran one finger along the report briefly, then looked up again. "So you delivered two full loads of water, each one enough to supply every single person in Megaton for a week, to the authorized Megaton representative without deviation or loss."

"... yes, sir?" said Baron, his tone shifting into _am I allowed to ask for more details?_ territory. Hillen, Zim noticed peripherally, had lost a little of that blank look.

"Did you verify this at any point?" Zim put the paper down. "Either of you?"

"I don't understand, sir-"

Zim stood up, and Baron went silent. A tinge of real worry crept into Hillen's expression.

"I assigned the three of you, and your Initiate there, to deliver the water to Megaton based on your prior performance records for the Brotherhood," he said. He rested the fingertips of one hand on the desk a moment. "And yet today I find myself in possession of not one but _three_ letters from Megaton claiming the water never reached them. Either week."

"Sir-"

"Not to mention some _really fascinating_ letters apparently circulated the past week or so in Megaton itself," Zim went on. "And a report from Knight 101, under Paladin Tristan's command..."

"Oh shit," said Vink involuntarily.

"Mmm." Zim's smile, such as it was, never reached his eyes. "101's got a lot to say, but I won't bore you gentlemen with most of it. You don't need the details. You don't _deserve_ the details, I should say."

Baron started to say something. Hillen made a short, sharp, frantic gesture to silence him.

"Gentlemen, when I give you an assignment involving delivering a week's worth of aqua pura to the second largest city in the Wasteland, I damn well expect to hear that the water actually GOT to said city," said Zim. "Instead, what I'm hearing is that you three _ninnyhammers_ got as far as the Megaton city limits and turned your water over to the first person you saw!"

"She said she was a Megaton citizen-"

_"She was a cult leader, you jackass!"_ Zim roared. "The woman you handed two weeks' worth of water over to is the founder of a church of _radiation worshippers_ who's been using _our_ hard work to turn unsuspecting Wastelanders into _ghouls!_ The ones who haven't died, anyway; there's been at least one fatality and I wouldn't be surprised if there aren't more. All thanks to you gentlemen and your hard, hard work."

There were people in the citadel who said Zim could smell fear. He couldn't, but times like this, he sure wished he did. It must smell pretty sweet, he figured.

"What do you have to say for yourselves? Because I can't wait to hear it from you."

"Permission to go wrestle a Deathclaw, sir?" quavered Baron.

_**"DENIED!"**_


End file.
